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Tragic Tales of Gelato
Jul. 9th, 2011 08:21 amI visited the Leaning Tower of Pisa yesterday. You guys, you guys, it's totally pulled itself up by its boostraps and stopped leaning!
(Everyone asks: "You went to the Leaning Tower? Still leaning?" Why no. No, suddenly skyhooks descended and pulled that slovely tower up straight.)
Also I had the world's BEST cookie: two layers of almond shortbread with sweet, tart orange marmalade in the middle, the whole studded with slivered almonds. BEST. COOKIE. EVER!
Also on the food front: I tried to eat a medium-sized gelato last night. The eating part went fine, but it couldn't keep pace with the melting, so my delicious chocolate gelato dribbled all over my hands. I felt like a five-year-old.
However, this was not as horrifying as the time I tried a gelato-waffle sandwich. Hot waffle! Cold gelato! Terrible alchemy! It dripped on my hands, smeared over my wrists, and was making for my elbows when, with a wail of despair, I chucked it into the trash beneath the Palazzo Vecchio.
And finally, as part of my quest to read the classics of the nations that I visit, I'm reading The Adventures of Pinocchio. (I should be reading Dante's Inferno but the number of translations overwhelmed me.) Pinocchio solves most of his problems by crying vigorously at them. Perhaps we are too hard on nineteenth-century heroines; clearly weeping your way to victory was a dual gender activity.
(Everyone asks: "You went to the Leaning Tower? Still leaning?" Why no. No, suddenly skyhooks descended and pulled that slovely tower up straight.)
Also I had the world's BEST cookie: two layers of almond shortbread with sweet, tart orange marmalade in the middle, the whole studded with slivered almonds. BEST. COOKIE. EVER!
Also on the food front: I tried to eat a medium-sized gelato last night. The eating part went fine, but it couldn't keep pace with the melting, so my delicious chocolate gelato dribbled all over my hands. I felt like a five-year-old.
However, this was not as horrifying as the time I tried a gelato-waffle sandwich. Hot waffle! Cold gelato! Terrible alchemy! It dripped on my hands, smeared over my wrists, and was making for my elbows when, with a wail of despair, I chucked it into the trash beneath the Palazzo Vecchio.
And finally, as part of my quest to read the classics of the nations that I visit, I'm reading The Adventures of Pinocchio. (I should be reading Dante's Inferno but the number of translations overwhelmed me.) Pinocchio solves most of his problems by crying vigorously at them. Perhaps we are too hard on nineteenth-century heroines; clearly weeping your way to victory was a dual gender activity.
